


for every king that died, they would crown another

by darthjamtart



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re always watching me.”</p><p>It’s the exact opposite of what Combeferre would want him to say, probably, but Enjolras would rather confront whatever this is directly. Grantaire’s face shifts, curling into an odd sort of smile.</p><p>“Don’t you know, Apollo?” Grantaire says, too softly. “When you’re in the room, I can’t look at anything else.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	for every king that died, they would crown another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarflowers/gifts).



> See notes at end for specific warnings.
> 
> The title is from the song "Daniel in the Den" by Bastille.

Combeferre says it out loud, voicing the unthinkable: “We have a spy in our midst.”

He’d waited until they were alone, Enjolras withdrawing from their comrades for the evening. They’d all been gathered at the Musain, their usual meeting place, to discuss their latest failure: SymbioPatricorp’s apparently coincidental change of schedule the very hour Les Amis had scheduled for their attempted break-in. Six attempts and six failures, with a different cause each time. A locked door that should have been left open for them, a guard where there should have been none.

For decades, the corporate giant had run the government in everything but name. SymbioPatricorp controlled undisclosed wealth, but money alone couldn’t have bought so many politicians. Even Lamarque, staunch defender of citizens’ rights, had been quelled in recent years, ending his opposition to welfare cuts and stepping down from several committees. Everyone knew SymbioPatricorp was responsible, but Les Amis were determined to find proof. For all the good it would do them.

“I know,” Enjolras admits, and Combeferre blinks. This was obviously not how he had expected the conversation to proceed.

“If you know,” Combeferre starts, then stops, edging closer to Enjolras and dropping his voice to a whisper, “who is it?”

“That’s the problem.” Enjolras keeps his lips as closed as possible, speaks through gritted teeth. “Even if there were a member of our company that I didn’t trust, there has been no opportunity for any one of them to betray us so thoroughly.”

“Spies, plural?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras clenches his fists. “Or some new tech, that you and Feuilly and Musichetta can’t detect. Either way, it seems impossible.”

They’ve debugged the Musain a couple dozen times, changed meeting places, made their plans on rooftops, in basements, outdoors and miles into the woods, or a field. Even if the walls have ears and the watching satellites have learned to lip-read, their failure shouldn’t be this absolute.

Combeferre starts to speak, then hesitates. Enjolras makes an encouraging gesture, despite knowing that he won’t like whatever Combeferre is about to say.

“Marius. I hate to consider it, but he’s been late to several meetings, and he is the newest. How much do we really know about him?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “He believes in our cause, I’m sure of it. His grandfather has disowned him.”

“It could be a ruse,” Combeferre says, but he sounds doubtful.

“Or we’ve merely had a run of terrible luck,” Enjolras counters, but he doesn’t need to see Combeferre’s face to know they’re agreed on just how unlikely that is. Enjolras sighs heavily. “A spy, then.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Combeferre says, and then all that’s left is to determine how.

***

Marius is late for their next meeting. He slips into the Musain and tries his best to take a seat unnoticed, which might have worked were Enjolras not watching for him.

“Marius,” Enjolras says, trying to muster some additional coldness for his voice. “Would you care to share with the group where you’ve been?”

“I — no?” Marius says.

“Enjolras thinks you’ve been feeding information to SymbioPatricorp,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes. “Or at least meeting with one of their agents.”

“Cosette is _not_ working for SymbioPatricorp!” Marius exclaims, then promptly turns beet-red and claps his hands over his mouth.

“Oh, you’ve met a _girl_!” Bahorel says, delighted. “Well done, Marius. I didn’t think you had it in you. You always get all nervous and sweaty around Musichetta.”

From across the room, Musichetta glares at him. “Thanks for pointing that out. Again.”

“Even if she were an agent of SymbioPatricorp, it’s not as though Marius would be able to string together a coherent sentence telling her anything,” Grantaire says. He’s halfway through a bottle of wine already, Enjolras notices, having showed up prompt as ever, despite what Bossuet had suggested about last night’s escapades and any subsequent torturous hangovers.

Marius yelps something disclamatory and slumps lower in his chair. “She probably thinks I’m an idiot,” he mumbles. Courfeyrac goes over to pat him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“If we could focus on business, please,” Enjolras tries, but he’s lost the room, everyone gathering around Marius to listen to him prattle on about Cosette’s amazing hair and soulful eyes. Enjolras sighs and joins Musichetta behind the bar, and Grantaire slides onto a barstool a moment later.

“Lost your light, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, pouring himself another glass of wine.

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras says, but it’s reflexive, no real heat. “What are we doing wrong?” he wonders, half under his breath, and barely catches the shadowed cast of Grantaire’s gaze, watching him, as always.

Combeferre had taken him aside to talk about that, too.

“Don’t be cruel,” Combeferre had admonished him. “Not about this.”

Kindness has never come easily to him, but Enjolras can do solidarity, at least. He slides the wine bottle across the counter and pours a small amount into a fresh glass. Lifting it, he hesitates, catching Grantaire’s eye, the ruby glint of Grantaire’s glass, raised in a toast.

“Vive la révolution,” Grantaire says, less mocking than his usual contributions, so Enjolras echoes the gesture before taking a dubious sip.

It tastes like wine. If it’s particularly good or bad, Enjolras can’t tell. He takes another swallow, then says, “You’re always watching me.”

It’s the exact opposite of what Combeferre would want him to say, probably, but Enjolras would rather confront whatever this is directly. Grantaire’s face shifts, curling into an odd sort of smile.

“Don’t you know, Apollo?” Grantaire says, too softly. “When you’re in the room, I can’t look at anything else.”

It should be flattering, but Grantaire’s tone...there’s something strange about it. Like he’s uttered something terrible, instead of an odd sort of compliment.

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras offers.

Grantaire sets his glass down with a thunk. “I do.”

By then the chatter in the rest of the room has settled down, and Grantaire gestures expansively. “Your people await,” he says, and the movement of his arm must catch Combeferre’s attention, because he joins them at the bar and quickly brings the meeting to a new start.

***

Enjolras has never really considered the extent of Grantaire’s drinking, but apparently some of the others have determined that the occasional intervention is in order. “I’m cutting you off,” Musichetta has said, more than once, but Grantaire tends to shrug off the admonishments, keeps a flask tucked away for such moments.

“I’m amazed you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning,” Joly says, snappish, as Grantaire drinks and drinks and drinks through yet another meeting. “How do you even still have a functioning liver?”

“R’s always been lucky,” Bahorel says, elbowing Grantaire as he sits down beside him. “One time,” Bahorel continues, “I was sure he’d broken something, probably had a concussion. But he was fine the next day! Slept it right off, apparently!”

Jehan tilts his head, looking concerned. “Have you always been such a heavy drinker, R?”

“Oh, for several lifetimes, at least,” Grantaire says airily, and waves them away even as he pours another glass.

***

Another mission, another failure. This one leaves Courfeyrac with a broken arm and Bossuet with a long gash over his ribs. Combeferre is grim-faced, quietly furious in a way Enjolras has never seen him — and Enjolras has always been able to rely on Combeferre’s steady calm.

They reconvene in a meadow overlooking a wide gorge, churning water below a dull sky. Feuilly scouts the perimeter, checking for any technology whatsoever: he and Musichetta have developed several new devices, but there’s no other metal or plastic, just rocks and dirt and sparse grass.

“Friends, we have been betrayed by one of our own,” Enjolras announces. Bahorel, recovering from a concussion, looks shocked, as do Jehan and Joly and Marius, but Feuilly and Musichetta, Courfeyrac and Bossuet and Éponine, they all seem unsurprised by the revelation. Grantaire looks sick, but that could just be the hangover.

“Each group was given slightly different information about our latest attempt to infiltrate SymbioPatricorp,” Combeferre says. “Based on what we encountered, Enjolras and I determined that the spy was most likely in group C.”

“That’s my group,” says Bahorel, still looking a bit dazed. “Me and Ép and R — you really think one of us betrayed you?”

“We don’t want to,” Combeferre says. He spreads his arms, pleading. “But what are we meant to believe?”

“I got a concussion!” Bahorel yells, and Enjolras shakes his head.

“We’re not accusing anyone, not yet,” Enjolras says.

Éponine glares at him. “Just starting a witch hunt?” she sneers. Her fists are clenched, and Enjolras has a moment of doubt — _was this the wrong choice?_ — before turning to Grantaire, who is, as always, watching him.

“Éponine isn’t the spy,” Grantaire says, and he takes a quick step back when Enjolras shifts toward him, then another. He’s close to the edge of the cliff, now, and Enjolras moves slowly, so slowly, trying not to spook him. He’s barely an arms length away when Grantaire adds, “Neither is Bahorel.”

“And you?” Enjolras asks. He can’t look away from Grantaire, can’t look away from the twisted smile on his face, the ever-present shadows in his eyes. “Why, R?”

“Did you know, that’s the first time you’ve called me that?” Grantaire says, and takes another step back, disappearing into the gorge as Enjolras’s hands clutch at the empty air where he had stood.

***

“It’s impossible,” Bahorel insists flatly. Enjolras’s ears are still ringing from the sound of Éponine’s scream, and it’s been hours since they scrambled down to search the shoreline for Grantaire’s body. They’d found nothing, and Enjolras doesn’t know how to lead them through this.

“He didn’t deny it,” Courfeyrac says, hoarse-voiced and red-eyed. “I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t make sense!” Éponine says. “He’s as committed in his own way as any of us!”

“We need answers,” Enjolras says. “And that means we still need to get inside SymbioPatricorp.”

“Of course you’re still thinking of the great cause,” Bahorel snaps, but Combeferre shakes his head.

“Enjolras is right. There’s something strange about all of this, and SymbioPatricorp must have the answers.” Combeferre looks at Courfeyrac, who nods, and Enjolras can see the slow assent on each person’s face.

“We try again tonight,” Enjolras says. “Just a few of us. They won’t be expecting another attempt so soon.”

“I’ll go,” Éponine says immediately.

“You, me, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Joly,” Combeferre agrees. 

It’s almost dusk before they can bring themselves to leave the gorge and head for the waiting lights of the SymbioPatricorp headquarters. They take the tunnels, a backup route that Jehan found in the city archives, and it’s uncanny, the ease with which they’re able to break in. No guards anticipating their movements, no security codes changed at the last minute.

And then they’re inside the server room, and Feuilly starts pouring through the data as quickly as possible.

“We should just download as much information as possible and take it with us,” Enjolras says, impatient. Combeferre, standing watch down the corridor, shakes his head.

“Even if we had a hard drive big enough, that kind of data transfer would take longer than we want to spend. There’ll be another security pass in fifteen minutes.”

Feuilly nods distractedly, fingers swiping through lists and lists of file and folder names, archived reports and flagged emails and there, his thumb pauses the movement on Lamarque’s name. “We have a problem,” Feuilly says.

“What is it?” Éponine asks.

“I don’t think they’re blackmailing Lamarque,” Feuilly says, squinting at a few sentences, poorly punctuated and lacking any capital letters. Casual correspondence between employees, discussing…

“Of course they’re blackmailing him,” Enjolras says. Why else would Lamarque have abandoned his long-held policies, changed course and hung his citizens out to dry?

“I think they’re controlling him,” Feuilly adds, and there’s a moment of bewildered silence.

“I’m...not sure I understand the distinction?” Enjolras says, at last.

“Show me,” says Joly, crouching to look at the data. “Hmm,” he says. “Whatever is involved, it’s in laboratory sixteen.”

“Feuilly, can you pull the records for lab sixteen?” Enjolras asks.

Feuilly shakes his head. “Some of it maybe, but even just that is too much. We need to move.”

“Then let’s go see for ourselves,” Combeferre says.

They move in quick darts, pausing at each corner to make sure they aren’t about to cross paths with any members of the security team, but they encounter nothing. It’s almost too easy, and Enjolras feels a creeping uncertainty: could this be a trap? Are they walking to their deaths, even now?

But there’s nothing, just empty corridors and open doors, all the way to laboratory sixteen.

Éponine sees the body first. “Grantaire!” she shouts, the sound half-smothered by her hand rising to cover her mouth. Impossible, though, the rise and fall of Grantaire’s chest: skin that bears no bruise or scrape, just the faintest mark of a needle from a recently-detached tube.

And beyond that body, a dozen more, identical, still hooked into a network of life support mechanisms: oxygen and nutrients, a row of biometric slabs.

The closest body opens its eyes.

“Welcome to SymbioPatricorp, Apollo,” Grantaire says. “I hope you find it as welcoming as I do.”

There’s a cruel twist to Grantaire’s mouth that Enjolras is all too familiar with. “Joly, Feuilly,” Enjolras says. “What is this?”

Joly studies the biometric readout on the slab while Feuilly pokes at a nearby console. “Clones,” Feuilly announces, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, as if to say, _obviously_. “With a neural chip. They grow the body and brain around the chip, and...and…”

“You can say it,” Grantaire says, dry-voiced. “Since, as you now know, I can’t.”

“They’re essentially programming the brain,” Feuilly finishes. “Programming _people_.”

“Behold, the people’s hero,” Grantaire says, gesturing toward the back of the room. If Enjolras squints, he can just make out Lamarque’s face on a few more bodies. “They needed backups, of course. Why give up such useful tools over something as trivial as death?”

“You couldn’t have found some way to tell us?” Éponine asks, and Grantaire’s face twists, anger and hurt and the perpetual shadow. Enjolras had always assumed it was simple melancholy.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

 _Don’t you know, Apollo?_ Grantaire had told him, had tried, as best he could: _When you’re in the room, I can’t look at anything else._ The programming, then, controlling his gaze, keeping his focus on the hub of resistance against SymbioPatricorp. Enjolras swallows, fighting the urge to throw up.

Feuilly is shaking his head again, staring at the console. “The chip’s control is absolute, but vague. You can’t confess anything outright that’s restricted by the chip’s parameters, but you could hint — have hinted — Grantaire, the drinking?”

Combeferre gets it first. “R, how often have you drunk yourself to death?”

Grantaire is smiling again. “It’s indirect, you see. If I don’t _think_ about it. Too obvious, after all, if I just, oh, shoot myself in the head in front of everyone. No way to replace the dead body with a living one, after that.”

Feuilly’s hands move frantically over the console. “I can change the programming, I think,” he says. “I don’t think I can turn off the chip.”

Enjolras can barely breathe. “You walked off a cliff,” he says.

“I fell off a cliff,” Grantaire corrects. “Entirely different.” His smile changes, loses a bit of the cruel edge. “The best death so far, really. Apollo’s face, and then everything went dark.” He stretches, lab-grown muscles shifting under un-inked skin. “And here we are. They have trouble keeping up with the tattoos, since I managed to avoid looking at some of them. The chip can only record the things I see and hear.”

“I’m sorry,” Éponine says. “We should have noticed. We should have — I should have —”

“Developed telepathy?” Grantaire asks. He tilts his head, then turns to stare at Feuilly. “You did it,” he says, sounding surprised. “My head is —” He cuts himself off, standing in a smooth motion, and striding to the first copy of himself. He pulls out the tubes in swift yanks, cuts power to the biometric slab, then wheels around to repeat the action on the next body. And the next, and the next.

“Is this murder?” Joly asks softly.

“They’re empty shells,” Grantaire snaps. “They’re nothing without the chip. The brain is wiped to allow the overlay.”

Feuilly nods, but Grantaire is past noticing. “Don’t make me wake up here again,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras shakes his head.

“What about Lamarque?” Combeferre asks.

“Leave the bodies; take the data,” Enjolras says. “We can publicize this, let the people know what SymbioPatricorp is doing.”

“Do you really think it will make a difference?” Grantaire asks.

“I have to,” Enjolras says, which is true enough. Already, he’s trying to think of the angle to use — will people be afraid that their own loved ones are clones, programmed by SymbioPatricorp to spy on them? Will this set off a witch hunt? Still, better to know. Better to be aware, and therefore armed.

Grantaire smiles at him. “Goodbye, Apollo,” he says, and Éponine jerks around, grabs Grantaire by the wrist.

“You’re not coming back with us?” she asks.

“Feuilly changed the parameters of the chip,” Grantaire says. “Not it’s nature. I’m a liability. Everything I see, everything I hear —”

“Gets recorded by SymbioPatricorp,” Enjolras finishes. “You could still come with us. Stay home during the strategic meetings and missions, of course, but —”

Grantaire shakes his head. “You should know,” he says. “I, more than anyone, want you to succeed. But I can’t be part of it.”

“I want you to be,” Enjolras says, before he can think better of it. Grantaire’s smile tilts, and then Grantaire is kissing him, quick and fierce, before shoving them all out into the corridor.

“Maybe if the programming couldn’t be changed back,” Grantaire says, then adds, “I’d run, if I were you.” He slams the lab door closed, and Enjolras hears a crash from the other side.

“Grantaire?” he says, trying the door, but it’s locked. He slams a palm against it, shouting, “Grantaire! R, open the door!”

There’s another crash, and then Combeferre is grabbing him, pulling him away. “We have to go,” he says. “Or we’ll be caught.”

They’re nearly out of the building when the walls shake, briefly. “What was that?” Joly asks.

“It felt like an explosion,” says Éponine, tight-lipped, hands clenched.

“R,” Enjolras says, half-turning, as if to go back, but Combeferre tugs him toward the exit with the others.

Once they’re outside and above ground, the damage is visible: dust rising from the hollowed-out section of SymbioPatricorp’s headquarters. “There’s no way he survived that,” Enjolras says, hollow-voiced. Joly is crying silently.

“We thought he couldn’t have survived the fall off the cliff, either,” Combeferre points out.

“He _didn’t_ ,” Enjolras snaps.

“There...there might be other backups,” Feuilly says. “I don’t have all the data.”

They watch the dust, considering that. Enjolras isn’t sure which is worse: the possibility that Grantaire is gone, or the possibility that he’ll wake up in a lab again, programmed to be used as a spy. Straightening his spine, he turns away from the wreckage.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: major character death (temporary, ambiguous).


End file.
